


Retrieval

by BrazenMonkey



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Dubious Consent, F/M, Revenge, Sansa Stark / Petyr Baelish (implied), Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-09
Updated: 2014-02-09
Packaged: 2018-01-11 19:13:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1176837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrazenMonkey/pseuds/BrazenMonkey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Did the little liar really think he would not come? That hiding her in a high dark tower and his weak attempt to conceal her true identity would fool him?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Retrieval

**Author's Note:**

> Second piece for Game Of Thrones, thank you so much for your wonderful feedback on my first piece!
> 
> I am not entirely happy with this, but I hope, it will suffice. Concrit is highly appreciated!

The Eyrie. Finally.

Subconsciously he reaches for the sword buckled onto his belt while he reigns his large black stallion in for a quick stop. The handle and its delicate pattern feel oddly familiar and fury rushes through his veins as he grips it tightly.

He kicks the horse’s flanks and the beast falls into a hasty canter, matching his owner’s furious heartbeat.

He grins as he sees the gates and the guards on watch. Baelish has his keep finely shielded.

For a moment, he can see her image flicker through his mind. She is here, he knows.

Four men at arms are dutifully securing the passageway to the castle.

They buried the Hound, they said. The time for his reincarnation has come. He has a purpose again.

The boys will stand no chance.

* * *

The commotion vibrates through Petyr Baelish and his desk as the little bottle of ink first jumps, then spills its content over his letters.

His head snaps and he turns his head in silence, waiting for a sign or any other noises to give away the reason of the disturbance.

He can hear the muffled sounds of footsteps, of hurrying and of instructions shouted. His ears tip at the sound of the captain of the guard’s shriek. The sound of turmoil and, without a doubt, fight.

Littlefinger rises from his chair and moves to the door, the feeling of the hidden dagger underneath his waistcoat a welcome reassurance.

The second he opens the door, the cries and the clashing of metal are no longer filtered and reach his ear with pure honesty. There is a fight going on.

He pulls the door to his chamber shut and hurries down the first set of stairs, only to take a sharp turn  to slip into the hidden passageway.

He hears the roar before he has even reached the court room.

The blood freezes in his veins.

* * *

Seven hells, he has not lost his edge, he thinks as he steps out of the puddle of bodies, gore and blood.

First the boys on watch – easy. Young, fierce, but far too eager to properly watch where they plunge at, a common mistake young warriors make. He has not bothered them with a prolonged fight.

Then the ones following, one after another, even three at once who were almost jumping at him, their swords drawn, their faces painted with their conviction.

The only paint that spread across their faces now is red, the colour of their quick and early death.

He may be a man of war and terror, but these fools do not interest him, and he has no intention of wasting his time on torturing the stupid lads for doing their duty.

It is not their fault they were in his way. And it is not them he wants to cry and beg.

“BAELISH!” His roar echoes through the immense castle and as he moves his lips, he can taste the flecks of blood covering his ugly scarred face and mouth. It makes him hungry for more. The dog has had a taste and is starving.

His sword drips with red mush but he does not bother to wipe it clean. Let him see what he is capable of.

“LITTLEFINGER! You bloody fucker, you know you can’t hide! Come out, or send more of your men to be put to the sword! They can’t protect you, sick little bastard!”

No-one can. Not after what he has done to her. 

* * *

 

In her chamber, Alayne Stone brushes her hair, as she is wont to do each time that hollow ringing in her heart returns.

The reflection in the mirror is that of a young girl, beautiful by common measurement, a heart-shaped face with high cheekbones, fine lips that curl into a soft cupid’s bow, a face framed by soft tendrils of auburn hair, a contrast against her ivory skin.

By her measurement, by _Sansa’s_ measurement, it is all wrong, the hair so false in colour, the pale lips her teeth have tended to with far too much abandon in her habit to gnaw her bottom lip, the cheeks hollowed by her refusal to eat. The hollow shell of a lie she is forced to live.

Every second she is alone, she is not with him. Every second she is not with him, she is out of reach of his hands, so greedy and impossible to push away, away from his ears deaf to pleas and begs, away from his smell that haunts her dreams and makes her scrub her skin until she is red and sore, simply because she feels so _unclean,_ so filthy.

She left the lion’s den to find herself in the whoremonger’s grasp.

Alayne he calls her in front of others. Cat, she calls her when they are alone, when he comes in the night to slip into her bed. Sansa is forgotten, forced to live in a body no longer hers to control.

Her hand pull at her hair more than necessary and the accompanying pain sends a rush of rare relief through her.

A sound, distant and yet very close, breaks her routine and the brush almost drops out of her hand.

It cannot be. Can it?

She turns her head, almost unbelievingly, her lips tentatively pursed in anticipation. She hears Littlefinger’s name called again, followed by a litany of words that would have made her blush a long time ago. She knows that voice, would now it anytime, no matter how deeply she had buried the memories. The use of swearing, the roaring tone like an animal, the sheer force alone in the vocal.

Blue eyes meet her reflection in the mirror, as Sansa Stark looks back at herself for the first time in a while.

A smile graces her features, a long forgotten sight. With relish, she closes her eyes.

* * *

His hand wraps around the little wench’s throat and with a satisfyingly strong grip he pins Baelish to the closest surface, his small feet dangling in the air as he helplessly thrashes against the Hound’s grasp.

“You should have known I would come.” His voice grovels deeply in his throat, much akin to the dog people are so willing to compare him to.

Littlefinger wheezes in a struggling breath and his face distorts in what is supposed to be a grin.

“Alas, I thought you dead. Then again, those believed to be dead are usually the sole survivors, aren’t they? And the dog has come for his favourite bone.”

Sandor’s fist clenches just a little bit and the creature in his grasp coughs and shakes as his voice dies. Much better.

Did the little liar really think he would not come? That hiding her in a high dark tower and his weak attempt to conceal her true identity would fool him?

There is a tantalizing fire in Littlefinger’s eyes as he observes the quickly thinning thread of the Hound’s patience. Something like very close to greed – only more basic.

“But, pray tell me, even a unrefined brute like you, would you want a bone someone has already _chewed_ on?” The one side of his sickeningly thin mouth tugs into a gruesome smirk.

A feeling that has long slumbered in Sandor’s chest awakens with fiery energy and _roars_ ,  a wrath so pure and true he is not sure he can fully control. Raw and hungry, needing to be fed.

The bloodlust almost drowns him. The only thought that still balances him, that reigns in his lower urge, is the thought of the sweet, sweet torment he has planned for the man that dared to lay a finger on Sansa Stark against her will. His cries and screams will soothe his rage.

“You would do better to mind your tongue, Littlefucker.” He manages to utter.

Baelish manages to grin through the strain on his face. “You will kill me anyway, won’t you?”

Sandor grins his gruesome smile, the one ruined side of his mouth twisting in an ugly gnarl. “Of course I will. But whether I will make it quick, or take my sweet time, entirely depends on you.”

Again the man in his grasp lets out a sound very akin to a chuckle and the spark in his eyes burns with rogue. “And I was so surprised that _you_ had not taken your sweet time with her – given that you had always been so obviously determined to shield her, or did you think you were innocuous? But no, apparently you had not taken a bite. A shame, what delicious sort of pleasure you have missed!”

The heat that coils and springs in his chest is almost at its climax and if he does not get started soon, Sandor does not know whether he will successfully make Baelish pay in all the ways he wishes to, for every single detail the little fucker’s words reveal of Sansa’s captivity floods his brain with more gruesome impulses and images. Baelish is either completely oblivious to the imminent danger or has decided to ignore it.

The Hound’s strong fingers flex around the hilt of his sword again. It is heavy in his hands, heavy with its duty. 

* * *

 

 When he is finished after what seems and felt like days, the broken carcass at his feet is no longer distinguishable as Petyr Baelish, or any human being for that matter.

With an empty sense of pride Sandor scans the dead body and his work. Surrounding the corpse, he sees the fingernails he had removed before completely severing the fingers bit by bit, from knuckle to knuckle in little pieces, like plucking petals off a dandelion. The knees are bent against their joint until the sinews had snapped and the bones had broken with a satisfying crack, and so are the shoulders and elbows, too. All that is left of the face is a mush of broken bones and skin, the eyes dented and destroyed, the teeth shattered, the hair pulled from the scalp.

The real trick with torturing is that there is a fine balance between successfully inflicting tremendous pain but still keeping the victim from fainting from the excruciating pain. He had learned to keep that balance long ago, a deed horrible to be learnt.

Sandor swallows a lump in his throat. The Little Bird will have heard the screams, the begs. A small part of him feels guilt – this is nothing she should ever witness. He makes a mental note to get her out avoiding the bloody mess.

_If she still wants to leave with a killing soulless brute like you_.

He ignores the thought and sets off to where Baelish had revealed Sansa’s chambers to be. He had no doubt that Littlefinger had told the truth – he had made sure of that.

When he reaches the heavy door to the wide-spaced chambers, his heart dangerously flutters in his chest, much to his own anger.

Killing more than a dozen men and torturing her captivator to the brink of death had been easy compared to facing her after such a long, long time.

He takes hold of the doorknob and with trembling fingers, open the door.

The room is beautiful, but he has long learnt that beauty usually came with a horribly high price.

A movement draws his attention to the little dressing table and the mirror atop of it.

His heart jumps against his ribs.

“Little Bird.” The endearment is uttered without thinking as he stares into the deep blue eyes of Sansa Stark. Her hair is wrong, he thinks angrily. Why would anyone dye her perfect fiery tresses? Why would anyone try to change a piece of perfection such as her? She looks weary, like she has grown too quickly throughout their time apart.

She is sitting by her dressing table in a thick gown and something that looks a lot like a travelling coat. A little spark of hope manages to overwhelm the fierce warrior, now at loss for words.

She answers his gaze, unfaltering. And then, she beams at him with a smile that casts away all the shadows her captivity had imprinted on her beautiful face.

Her voice mirrors the pure joy in her beautiful smile.

“At last.”


End file.
